Fallout Equestria: Rules of Engagement
by UndeadSamurai01
Summary: When lone Marine is transported to Equestria he finds a post-apocalyptic wasteland. With no orders, no resupply and seemingly no hope of return, he sets out to find what brought him here, and why.
1. Chapter 1: Of New Wars and Pipbucks

_Disclaimer: I am not, nor have I ever been associated with the military of any nation, nor do I have para-military training of any kind. I have never handled a firearm, been shot at, or watched someone die so I can't claim to understand what it's like to be a Marine (and even if I had that wouldn't bring me much closer). As should be obvious by now, the protagonist of this story is purely fictional. His opinions do not reflect the official position of the USMC, nor any member(s) thereof, and his mannerisms are not an accurate portrayal of any particular Marine, nor Marines as a group._

_That said, this isn't Call of Duty. I will try my utmost to keep the military aspect of this story grounded in reality. I've done my research and I will strive for technical accuracy, if I make a mistake, please, call me out on it._

_Disclaimer 2: This is a fanfiction based on Hasbro's __My little pony__, and Kkat's __Fallout: Equestria__. This fanfiction is strictly non-commercial, the rights to any pre-existing characters or settings belong to the copyright holders, please support the official releases._

_Special thanks: to my editor tebee without whom this story would be a mess of grammatical errors and my pre-readers_

Once upon a time, on the not-so-magical-and-actually-quite-fucked-up planet of Earth. There was a US Marine who signed up to defend his country. He was assigned to a fire team, the fire team assigned to a squad and the squad assigned to a company. Together they defended the area surrounding a Forward Operating Base in Afghanistan from insurgents. If only it were that simple.  
**  
Chapter 1: Of New Wars and PipBucks**

_"As a soldier, you can be sent to any area of the world... you could find yourself alone, in a remote area – possibly in enemy territory. This manual provides information and describes basic techniques that will enable you to survive and return alive, should you find yourself in such a situation."_Preface, US Army Survival Guide.

"– and so I said, 'chicken nuggets? Are you crazy!'" exclaimed Jackson

The two marines in the Humvee's back seat roared with laughter. I'd missed the setup so the joke didn't really work for me. I did crack a smile though. Heh. Oatmeal.

That's right, I'm a Brony. Not that that's a secret. There are no real secrets in the company. Relying on each other for your lives seems to make things like our TV preferences seem somewhat insignificant. So, despite some ribbing (no Jackson, Bronyism is NOT covered under "don't ask, don't tell!"), it was accepted just like Andrews' bottle cap collection, or Jackson's wild exaggerations of his teenage adventures. Hell, it gave us something to talk about, and when you're stuck patrolling a the same patch of dirt for eight months – anything – is better than talking about the weather. Lets have an example conversation:

"Hot today isn't it?"

"Yes, it is. Just like it was when you asked yesterday. Just like it has been for the last four months. So when you come up to me tomorrow, and you ask me, 'Hot today isn't it?' my answer's gonna be; it's still freakin' hot, and we're still in a fucking desert."

"How hot do you think it is?"

"I hate you."

My short brown hair was plastered to my head beneath my combat helmet, a few beads of sweat pooling around the follicles creating an itch I'd learned to ignore. Gold tinted Oakley sunglasses rubbed against the chinstrap while shielding my eyes from occasional blasts of light when the sun was unobstructed by cliffs. Ear plugs hung on a cord around my neck. According to SOP's written by some rear echelon motherfucker they were supposed to be inserted whenever I left the FOB, but seriously? Fuck that. I'd rather hear the enemy coming than die with intact eardrums.

Some people wonder whether humvees are comfortable like the civilian versions. They're not. Mind you, when you're wearing eighty pounds of combat gear in a hundred and ten degree heat, comfortable is not a term which is thrown around much. Humvees are utilitarian beasts, and when it's a choice between a more comfortable seat and an extra fifty pounds of armor on the doors, I know which one I'll pick. The seat. Man, fuck armor. Standard armor already stops seven six two's, and if you get hit with an RPG you're fucked anyway. It's an anti-tank weapon, and no matter how much armor you bolt to a Humvee it'll never be a fuckin' Abrams! Damn PoG's don't think like that though. Hur, der Marines 'er tough, they c'n handle be'in uncomfortable!

Yeah, of course, until it comes back and fucks you in the ass when you jump out into a firefight and can't run straight.  
Andrews was listening to my rant and peeked down from the gunner's turret.

"Maligning the armor?" asked Andrews with mock incredulity, "Oooo, tempting fate now aren't we. Next you'll be saying you're two weeks from retirement!"

It was difficult to tell how serious he was being. We joke about fate and superstition, but at the same time we all have our rituals, the things we do just to appease lady fate. Little things, stupid things. Andrews wears a cross around his neck that I'd never seen before we deployed, Jackson listens to the same song, every day at the same time, even the Sargent is not immune. He stirs his cereal three times before eating, no more, no less. And me? I have my Twilight Sparkle. A little blind bag pony that stays in my pocket, where my nocs (night vision goggles) used to be, before they broke (dust proof my ass). We believed in luck, yet mocked the very idea of it. The mind's way of dealing with what we can't control.

"Fuck retirement, only way I'm retiring in two weeks is in a bodybag," I retorted, "I plan on a long and illustrious career of being shot at, blown up and unappreciated in some backwater country."

"That why you re-enlisted?" he asked more seriously.

"What would I do as a civvie?" I deflected, "Get some shitty ass customer service job and work it for the rest of my life, if I'm lucky? Fuck that shit, I'm a Marine."

The first Humvee in the convoy exploded. Or at least the front of it did. Supersonic metal fragments pinged off our windscreen.

"IED!" someone yelled.

In the movies, this is where everything would go into slow motion. Real life was not so forgiving. Everything happened nauseatingly fast. No time to think, only react. We skidded off the road in a cloud of dust. I threw myself out of the Humvee, but – blinded by the dust cloud – I missed my footing and fell on my face. Tasting dirt and a trickle of salty blood from a split lip, I rose up into a crouch. I'd managed to keep a hold of my rifle. I could hear rounds being fired, impacting sand and metal. AK's. At this distance my armor would hold, but that didn't mean shit unless I got hit in the chest.  
Goddamnit where were they! I scanned left. There up on the cliffs.

"Ten o'clock," I yelled "up high!"

"I got more at three o'clock!" called Jackson, "looks like they're dug in!"

I fired my M4 ineffectually, wondering why the fifty wasn't firing. I looked back and was met with a sight that, upon reflection is horrifying, but at the time was just numbly accepted. No time for feelings. Most of Andrews' face had been blown out by a shot to the back of the head.

"We're too exposed," yelled the Sargent, "get to the cliffs, Pearson, you first, now, COVER FIRE!"

That was me. As my fire team fired off rounds, I sprinted forward for the first piece of cover I could find and dove into a convenient alcove in the rocks. Something wasn't right. I looked more closely and my blood ran cold. There was a wire sticking out of the ground.

"Secondaries!" I yelled, as I threw myself as far as I could back out into the street.

The explosion followed. Focused by the rock walls it threw me like a ragdoll, shrapnel tearing into my left leg. I hit the ground. Hard.

-x-

I guess I must have passed out because when I came to, it was cold and dark. Really dark. A thick cloud cover blocked both moon and stars. Where the hell was everyone? I scrabbled in the dark and was relieved when I felt the familiar shape of my rifle.

This is my rifle, there are many like it, but this one is mine. Without me, my rifle is useless, without my rifle, I am useless.  
An adage endlessly repeated by Boots and considered 'stupid' by veteran Marines, it none the less provides an idea of the bond between a Marine and his weapon. Any Marine unfortunate enough to misplace his rifle will likely experience a sensation not unlike excreting a number of standard masonry blocks. For those of you who have consumed MREs this will require little imagination.

I switched on the barrel mounted flashlight and the powerful beam cut through the darkness.  
This couldn't be right. I looked around and recognised nothing. The Humvees, even the wreckage was gone! The cliffs were all wrong. Hell even the dirt was wrong, it was soft and fine, completely unlike the coarse, sandy grit that filled my boots.  
They couldn't just have left me behind! I pulled out my radio and turned it on, cycling through the different military channels... nothing. That wasn't too surprising; the range on those things is only a few miles. I put out a few calls, but I wasn't about to hold my breath.

Luckily the shrapnel wound to my leg was not as serious as I'd feared. As I bandaged it, I noticed something bulky under my left sleeve. It was so comfortable that I hadn't noticed it up til this point. Rolling up my sleeve revealed some kind of wrist mounted computer. A small emblem read 'PipBuck 3000'. Weird name.

I was hesitant to press the 'on' button in case it turned out to be packed with explosives. In Afghanistan, paranoia saves lives. Eventually my curiosity won out. After all, someone had gone through the trouble of putting it on me while I was unconscious. If they'd wanted to kill me they'd have done so already.

The monochrome display lit up amber and revealed a map. Wow, retro, I thought to myself. All the sudden my vision flashed and when it came back I could see a compass in the corner of my vision. I rubbed my eyes in disbelief. Some kind of retinal projection? Wow, I take back what I said about 'retro'.

There was a direction marked on the compass. A direction I should travel. I looked down at the map and... da fuck? It was navigating me to a place named 'Ponyville'. Since when do Afghans name their towns in English? Someone was having a joke. That or this was some kind of coma dream, still couldn't rule that out, but I couldn't quite bring myself to believe that it was. For now, this was real.

-x-

You'd probably think that as a Marine I'd feel right at home operating alone in what could potentially be enemy territory, that as a veteran of two wars I'd be ready for this. You'd be wrong. Sure I had some training, but I was a Rifleman, not a Commando. I lived and fought alongside my four man fire team, and most of the time with the other two fire teams of the squad backing us up. I hadn't been truly alone in months and psychologically it took its toll.

With no idea where I was relative to… anything, I figured I may as well follow the nav point. I doubted I was within any kind of search area, heck, it was probably a different country. Equestria came to mind but I dismissed it out of hand. Ponyville wasn't that unique of a name, and this didn't much look like a magical utopia to me. If it was, I'd be giving Rainbow Dash a piece of my mind. This weather was ridiculous. I laughed at my own joke, but really I was freaking out. So I fell back on my training.

Right, first things first. Inventory; M4A1 – SOPMOD1, ACOG scope, night vision scope, flashlight, four 30 round mags FMJ 5.56mm, M203 under barrel grenade launcher with three 30mm grenades, Berretta M9, two 15 round mags, multi-tool, med pack, standard combat knife, Dragonskin armor, helmet and ballistic goggles, sunglasses, digital watch, hydration pack, two energy bars, a (useless) radio, an (equally useless) map of the area we had been patrolling and a mission report logbook. To my surprise this was all listed out in my (I guess I can call it mine, it is attached to me after all) PipBuck. Next to each of them was a value in 'caps'. Whatever those were. The most intriguing thing was the entry for my armor. 'Dragonskin armor (Human Variant)'. 'Human Variant'? As opposed to what?

I still couldn't see much as I worked my way towards the nav point, but the ubiquitous mud I was trudging through seemed to confirm my suspicion that I was no longer in the desert. I swapped out my ACOG scope for the night vision attachment. This meant the sights were no longer zeroed of course, but it'd be good enough for close up work.

Ponyville turned out to be a collection of charred ruins. Only a few buildings were still standing, and even those looked to be on their last legs. No signs of repair either; this town had been abandoned long ago. People had died here. Civilians probably. Who fucking knew really? Truthfully it didn't bother me. Whoever said "war never changes" never had to worry that any one of the civilians he was supposedly protecting could be strapped with explosives, or been forced to help rebuild a water-pump for a village that may very well harbor the same insurgents who had just sewn the road back to base with IED's. There were times when a part of me felt it would be easier to just drop a MOAB on the damn villages and let God sort it out; the more rational part of my brain reminded me that 'most' of the civvies were decent people, just trying to survive, and that their support was critical to base security.

Being torn so strongly in two directions; helping and harming, saving lives and ending them, my emotions all washed together. Fragile hope and crushing despair, insufferable rage and courageous pacifism, they all collided with one another, creating a kind of destructive interference that just left me feeling numb.

-x-

Gunshots. In my experience there's one surefire way to tell some 'tough guy' from a soldier. When startled, 'tough guys' freeze, their reflexes deadened over the years to demonstrate they have no fear. Soldiers duck. Fragments of brick and mortar sprayed from a nearby wall as it was struck by a bullet that I had little doubt was meant for me. I ducked behind said wall, and considered my options. My adrenaline kicked in full force and I felt like I could go hand-to-hand with a fucking bear!  
I took a deep breath and controlled myself. I switched the safety off on my rifle, setting it to single shot with a satisfying 'click'. I had to PiD (positively identify) the shooter. I did *not* want to be responsible for shooting some over-zealous young ANA (Afghan National Army) soldier, even if he had taken a shot at me. It was very dark after all, and he could probably see by my silhouette that I was armed.

The ANA was... not the most professional of armies. The training we gave them was, by necessity, limited, and they had a somewhat alarming tendency to get high on hash and opiates prior to or even during battle. This wasn't to say they were useless. Far from it. We had to count on the fact that eventually they would be able to keep the peace if we were to have any hope of ending this war.

On the compass (which still kind of freaked me out, being superimposed onto my vision) a red bar seemed to indicate the position of the shooter. Useful, but it still didn't tell me his intentions. Deciding that popping my head out into view of what I was ninety percent sure was a sniper was probably not conducive to staying alive, I explored other options.

"US Marines!" I yelled out, "identify yourself!"

There was no response. I racked my brain to try and remember the phrase in Dari, the local dialect, but was drawing a blank. Fuck. We'd always relied on the terps (interpreters) to interact with the locals. 'US Marines' should have been clear enough anyway. It's not like that needed a translation.

I had an idea. In daylight, it would have been far too obvious, but in this darkness it just might work. I was betting the sniper wouldn't have the benefit of night optics. Pulling my combat knife, I stuck it into the mortar between two bricks close to ground level. Making as little sound as possible, I removed them, creating a hole large enough for the rifle and its scope. I lay prone behind the wall poking the barrel through the gap and activated the night vision scope. With a high pitched whine the area beyond the wall lit up in fuzzy green detail. What I saw shocked me, which was quite a feat considering my already elevated state. What I could see was, without a doubt, a facsimile of Rarity's carousel boutique. Who had built it, and why, was beyond me, but right now I had more pressing concerns. I had to identify the sniper before he spotted the faint glow given off by my scope. I flicked on the infrared laser, the sight wasn't zeroed, but the laser was. Zeroed at 100 feet mind you (it was offset from the barrel), so if the shot was further, I'd have to adjust my aim right. The invisible beam glowed brightly through the scope cutting a swath through the air as I looked for my target.

Now it wasn't unusual to see horses in Afghanistan, nor even for insurgents to fight from horseback, so when I looked through the scope and saw something vaguely horse-shaped I wasn't particularly perturbed. As I looked closer however, I saw two things wrong with it. The first was that it was wearing some kind of armored barding, which quite frankly was ridiculous. Insurgents could rarely afford armor for themselves, let alone their horses. The second, and more important problem, which I had to believe was some kind of trick of the light, was that it was riderless, and somehow levitated a rifle above its head.

I took my eye away from the scope and sure enough, I saw what could be the faint glow of telekinesis around the rifle, about 50 yards away. Which meant... which meant that... fuck. Which meant I was seeing things. The rider's clothing must be deflecting light peculiarly, messing with the scope. Not being completely insane, as far as I knew, I wasn't willing to entertain the other option that was staring me in the face. Still, I had PiD'd the target. He was definitely armed and, even if I couldn't see him, from his armaments he was definitely not NATO or ANA.

"Cleared hot," I whispered to no-one, not used to working alone.

This wouldn't be the first person I'd shot, but it still wasn't something I enjoyed. I went over my rationale again. If the rider was going to see my scope glow, he would have fired by now. I was well aware that he was probably not alone, and if I fired I would give away my position as surely as sending up a flare. The fact that I couldn't see anyone else through the windows was making me nervous, they could be trying to flank me. Could I slink away without being seen? Probably not. There was a lot of open ground before the next piece of cover from the sniper.

What was my evidence for him being hostile? He'd seen a lone, armed figure walking towards his camp and taken a, literal and figurative, shot in the dark. Hell of a reason to kill somebody. I might have done the same thing! Fuck this war. Why couldn't this shit ever be black and white? Give me a bunch of God-damned Nazi zombies to kill any day.  
The RoE (rules of engagement) were clear. I could shoot him now, and I was probably going to have to. Completely inappropriately, a thought crawled into my head as I felt a piece of hard plastic dig slightly into my chest. What would Twilight Sparkle do in this situation?

Probably go insane like me, and start thinking about imaginary characters. Fuck. No. I knew what she'd do. She wouldn't do anything. If her friends were here, she would take the shot, to protect them – just as I had in the past. By myself... by herself, she wouldn't do it because she would never be able to live with herself afterwards, even if it was self-defence.  
But I wasn't Twilight Sparkle.

I calmed by breath, exhaling slowly and aimed roughly half a meter above the horse's head, where the rider's chest should be.

I was a Marine, a trained killer.

I pulled the trigger.

My rifle cracked authoritatively, the vibration knocking the scope out of focus.

"Piece of crap!" I muttered, smacking it with my gloved hand, "Never see this shit in Call of Duty."

The scope sputtered, cutting to black, then blurred back into focus. I looked and observed... no effect on target. The rifle was still right where it was before, appearing to float amid the blackness. Seemingly without warning it started firing wildly. A trained individual should have been able to spot my muzzle flash; the insurgents were many things, but highly trained was not one of them. At this rate he'd run out of ammo before he even saw me. Right, I thought, new plan. Wait till he starts to reload, then shoot the horse and run. It had always seemed kind of slack to me to shoot enemy animals (a favorite tactic of the insurgents was to strap IED's to pack animals, the safest way to disarm them being to detonate from a distance), they didn't have any choice after all, but if it was him or me, it was going to be him.

I shifted my aim slightly lower, keeping the laser on the horse's head. I might as well make it quick. I saw the clip drop from the – supposedly – floating rifle and took the shot. This time the effect was immediate, the rifle clattered to the floor, followed shortly by the horse. The gunman was still nowhere to be seen.

I rose up into a crouch and started moving away from the wall, but then I saw another red bar on my HUD. This time I knew what it meant. I spun left and flicked on my flashlight. My assailant was shocked by the sudden brightness, but not as shocked as I was. There was no denying it now. This creature, charging at me with a rusty machete clenched in its teeth, wearing blood stained leather armor, was a pony. Not a small horse but an, honest to god, fucking FiM, G4 pony. The enormous eyes and bright blue coat left no doubt in my mind. Leaving me to wonder what substance I could possibly have consumed to make me trip balls like this. Fortunately I didn't have time for a protracted questioning of my sanity, my survival instincts forcing me to accept instantly what would no-doubt have taken hours of intense introspection to come to terms with; I was in Equestria.

The pony resumed his charge. While the RoE was strict, (not that I was under any obligation to follow it at this point), charging a US soldier with a rusty knife was still more than enough to get you shot. That said, the RoE was far from my mind as I fired two rounds into his center mass.

He stumbled and fell, a pool of blood spread out like an oil slick in the blackness of the night. My Little Pony, laying in a pool of blood. The show was just about the only thing in my life that I had considered wholly pure and innocent. It would be a lie to say I'd never imagined living there. Of course something so pure could never survive contact with me.  
Three more red bars, behind me this time. Eyes in the back of my head, I was starting to like this PipBuck more and more. Flicking off my flashlight I sighted my first target, and fired.

The shot went low, the green pony stumbling as her foreleg shattered. Another gunshot rang out, but not mine. Fuck that hurt. The round hit me in the shoulder, fortunately it was of low caliber and my armor did its job.

I rounded on the shots location and put a round through the offending pony's head. I turned to face my last opponent, but he was already upon me. At the last second I think he may have realised the folly of going up against a creature twice your size in hand to hoof combat, but any such thought was cut short as I brought the butt on my rifle down on his head. There was no cute little staggering around like you might expect from a cartoon pony. Instead he hit the ground like a sack of bricks.

Footnote:  
SPECIAL: James Pearson  
Strength: 7[+]  
Perception: 8[+]  
Endurance: 6[-]  
Charisma: 4  
Intelligence: 6  
Agility: 6  
Luck: 4

Perk added: Marine – Your years of combat experience grant you +1 to Perception and Strength as well as a 25% accuracy bonus when wielding rifles or semi-automatic pistols

Trait added: Human – Your dexterous hands give you an extra 15 points each to repair and survival, but you suffer -1 endurance and -50% movement speed over open ground. Due to your alien appearance equine characters may flee from you or attack without provocation.


	2. Chapter 2: A Wasteland Sunrise

**Chapter 2: A Wasteland Sunrise**  
_"You should also avoid grazing animals with horns, hooves... Move carefully through their environment. Caution may prevent unexpected meetings."_ US Army Survival Manual; entry on Dangerous Animals

Sunrise in Afghanistan was a beautiful thing. The clear air and mountainous horizon made for a spectacular transition from a star strewn night to a fiery orange star-burst with rays cast across the land, shimmering in the airborne dust.

Sunrise in the Equestrian wasteland... not so much. With the light diffusing through thick clouds it was difficult to spot where exactly the sun even was. It was better than stumbling around in the dark, but it did little to lift my spirits.

The light also made it easier to examine the small pile of equipment I had acquired from the three dead ponies. I didn't know how many more there were in the ruins, so I just took what I could easily carry, a few weapons clipped onto my webbing and the concussed pony draped over my shoulders. He owed me some answers, but with my luck, and knowing what little I did about medicine, knocking someone out for longer than a couple minutes was a probable death sentence.

The mare I had shot in the leg had, to my surprise, managed to escape without so much as a trail of blood, but I doubted she would live long without medical attention. It brought back memories of Afghanistan, following blood trails when you finally get lucky and hit one of the bastards that had been shooting at you for days and weeks. It was amazing how fast my brain had labelled these ponies 'insurgents'. Just like that they were symbolically responsible for killing my teammates and any hesitation I'd had in shooting them was gone. Of course that was all well and good in the heat of battle but now I had to wonder. I mean, I'd been shooting at them, they were shooting at me; were they just defending themselves? Had I just committed a massacre? Who knows what kind of mythical beast they mistook me for.

Fuck it. They shot first. I defended myself. This wasn't on me. I really wished my team was here, not for physical protection, but just to have someone to reaffirm that I'd done the right thing. That I'd had no choice.

The weapons were all modified for pony use. No. Not modified; they were built this way. The rifle's trigger was contained in a mouth grip and the stock was bent downwards, no doubt to meet with an earth pony's shoulder. There was a scope on the side of the rifle, but the lenses were cracked and useless. The other weapon, a pistol, was similar. The slide and barrel were pretty standard, except that the sights were mounted on the side. The mag and receiver were mounted in the regular vertical fashion, but the trigger and mag release were on a complicated looking mouth grip sticking out from the left of the weapon. It looked like it might actually fit in my mouth, but I wasn't about to risk breaking my teeth with the recoil. The pistol used 9mm rounds and the rifle, .308's. Odd that they used the same round sizes as us, including the both imperial and metric measurement systems. No doubt that said something very interesting about their pre-war history, but mostly it was just convenient. I decided to keep the pistol - I would have to figure out how to fire it by hand, but at least I had some more ammo.

The 'enemy combatant' I had tied up began to stir. When I had removed his armor and saddlebags I noticed that his green coat looked matted, mangy and smelled foul; his cutie mark appeared to be a fractured skull. Not what I was expecting from a 'pastel grass-muncher'. Hopefully I was about to find out what happened to the utopia I once knew and loved.

The pony looked at me and his irises contracted in fear. I suppose he hadn't gotten a good look at me last night. He struggled against his bonds before bearing his yellowed teeth in a rather adorable attempt to intimidate me. Despite the circumstances, ponies still looked cute.

"What's your name?" I asked, starting the interrogation with what I hoped was an innocuous question.

I half expected him to be surprised that I could speak 'Equestrian', but if he was, he wasn't showing it. I suppose most creatures in Equestria could speak it, so it wasn't that much of a stretch.

"I'll kill you!" he yelled, starting to struggle again.

Ok, this was going to be harder than I thought.

"Fair enough," I responded, "but right now you're not in a position to kill anyone. Answer my questions and I'll let you go."

"I'll hunt you down," he threatened, "I'll rip out your guts, and keep your head as a trophy."

Was there a real risk of him hunting me down? Maybe, but people had been trying to kill me since I set foot in Afghanistan. Equestria too, now that I think of it. The information this prisoner could provide would be invaluable to me, and hey, if I noticed him following me I could just shoot him. Technically it violated RoE, but fuck it, I wasn't about to get killed trying to uphold directives from a different world.

"That's a risk I'm willing to take. Answer my questions and I'll let you go. What is your name?"

"Skull." he answered menacingly. I mentally rolled my eyes, probably could have guessed that.

"Why did your... group, attack me?"

"You were in our territory."

Great, so they were just some gang, squatting in the ruins.

"When did Ponyville get destroyed?"

He looked at me as if unable to believe my stupidity. "It was always this way."

"You mean as long as you can remember? What happened, was there a war?"

"Have you been living in a bucking stable! The great war? Zebras blew us to pieces with balefire warheads." He paused, then grinned cruelly, " 'least we got them as good as they got us."

"Balefire warheads?" I questioned.

"Ya know, the megaspells that turn cities into radioactive craters?"

A nuclear war, mutually assured destruction. I'd have loved to know what drove peace loving ponies to that, but my hostage didn't seem like he'd be an accurate source of historical information.

"How did ponies survive?"

"How the buck should I know, now are you going to let me go?"

I asked him a few more things of tactical importance, locations appearing on my PipBuck map as he described them.

True to my word, I let him go. There was a standoff once he was untied, but after a few seconds he turned and galloped away. I watched him through my scope until he disappeared back into the ruins.

**-x-**

Re-evaluating my status with my new intel confirmed my earlier suspicions. Fucked, would be a good descriptor. I'd been transported to an Equestria that was at least as much of a hellhole as Afghanistan with no backup, I had less than a day's worth of food and water, and I was going to be stuck here for an indefinite length of time.

Well at least food and water were something I could work on. Those insurgents must have had supplies cached somewhere, even if they were just raiding caravans or whatever. I couldn't feel particularly bad for stealing from them, they no doubt had stolen most of it from civvies to begin with. Or so I moralised as I took the last bite of my energy bar. The best approximation of its taste would be boiled potato with the consistency of chewing gum, but I savoured it nonetheless. My last meal from Earth. I didn't hold out much hope for finding anything better in the wasteland - hell, I'd be lucky to find something I could metabolise. Preserved equine food would probably be based on hay, or something similar. The thought of foods I could metabolise inevitably lead to meat. I shuddered as I realised I could have eaten those ponies.

No. That was practically cannibalism; butchering a pig was different to eating a creature you could have had a conversation with fifteen minutes ago. If it came down to it, I was sure there would be smaller game for me to hunt.

Moving through the ruins in daylight was surreal. The layout wasn't exactly the same as in the show, no doubt there had between some changes leading up to the war, but it was scarily close. There was no colour. Previously vibrant walls had long since lost their paint, buildings were missing doors, windows, roofs, entire walls; some houses were entirely reduced to rubble. There seemed to be no epicenter, the varying degrees of destruction were more to do with the strength of building materials. A few bomb craters scared the ground, but they weren't large enough to have caused this level of destruction. My best guess would be that it was mostly fire damage. Knowing that there were WMD's involved in the war I was surprised that Ponyville wasn't just one enormous crater. Surely the town housing the elements of harmony would be on the Zebras' primary target list? Then again, with a state of nuclear readiness perhaps the elements were moved from place to place to avoid them being targeted? Urgh. It hurt my brain trying to reconcile these new facts with my existing knowledge of ponies.

I had seen burnt out villages before. The most off putting thing about Ponyville was that everything was in miniature. Cute right? Maybe, but it presented a significant obstacle to effective close quarters combat. The doorways were at chest level, which would significantly limit mobility within buildings.

I crouched down and entered one of the buildings. Crouched over like this I couldn't back out easily I would just have to hope I could deal with any resistance head on. Some Vietnam tunnel rat bullshit. Ah well, at least this place wasn't boobytrapped.

BEEP... BEEP... BEEP...

What the fuck was that? I looked down and saw a metal disk about three inches wide and one inch thick, on top was a flashing button labelled: 'Disarm'. I didn't press it. Obviously no-one puts a working 'disarm' button on top of a landmine. I kicked it down the hallway and threw myself to the floor, feet towards the blast, minimising my surface area.

The explosion was actually quite anaemic, doing some minor damage to the closest wall. It had probably been designed to maim rather than kill. Blow off a foot and a soldier was out of the fight; it took more resources to care for a wounded man than a dead one.

I backed out of the house and reconsidered my options. With the houses boobytrapped, scavenging just got alot more complicated. What did my training tell me? That this wasn't my MoS and I should get on the radio to EOD. Yeah. That was going to happen.

I caught motion out the corner of my eye and turned to face what appeared to be a floating helmet. It was making a beeline for me, at speed. I'd seen enough car bombs try and run roadblocks that there was no way in hell I was letting this thing close to me. I brought up my rifle and fired once into the ground underneath it, giving it a warning shot purely out of instinct. The floating orb didn't slow its pace, but it began to bob and weave evasively. I managed to fire another five rounds as it approached me, two shots clipped it, but they must not have hit anything vital. With ears ringing from my own weapons fire, I struggled to make out what the orb was saying as it reached twenty feet. At ten feet, it stopped and I tried to squeeze in one last shot.

Pain lanced through my left arm as it spasmed and threw off my aim. My pipbuck was electrocuting me! It took all my self-control not to just drop my rifle and attempt to tear the the thing from my wrist. I knew it would do no good, that thing was bolted on good and tight. My left arm was rigidly by my side, on the verge of hyper-extending, my right awkwardly trying to aim my M16 pistol grip, braced against my shoulder.

I fired again but the shot went wide, as I pulled the trigger the shock grew to the level of a Tazer, my muscles tensing involuntarily forcing me to my knees. At this distance I could finally hear its message.

"Subject Six," ordered the orb, taking a position just outside arm's reach, "cease hostilities at once! Non-compliance will result in termination."

The fuck? I thought, though I wasn't exactly in a fit state to speak.

"Your co-operation is appreciated." the orb bobbed happily, there was a soft click as if the orb were loading another recording, "Congratulations traveller, you have been selected to take part in the first trans-dimensional cultural exchange! At Stabletech we pride ourselves on not just surviving this apocalypse, but preventing the next one!"

The robot's cheery yet mechanical voice was grating on my nerves. It sounded like one of those radio ads where people are WAY too excited about buying insurance.

"Relevant files have been uploaded to your Stabletech issued Pipbuck," my Pipbuck beeped, and the orb continued, "if you do not comply, your Security Pipbuck™ is fitted with a failsafe device that will ensure your termination."

Paranoia justified. I never should have turned this fucking thing on. I had two choices, comply, or try to fight my way out. I didn't much like being at the mercy of an orb.

I went for my rifle and the damn thing buzzed me again.

"Alright!" I said warily, "I'll co-operate."

I shakily stood up, half expecting to be tazed.

"Excellent!" said the orb, " we're going to be the best of frie-zzzzzzzzz"

The orb never finished that sentence because I reached out and grabbed it, my other hand going for my knife. As expected, I was electrocuted, but whoever programmed the orb wasn't smart enough to think this through. With the pipbuck pressed against the orb's metalic hull the smell of burning plastic emanated from it followed by several pops. It dropped to the ground like a hunk of lead, dragging me with it, as whatever was keeping it aloft cut out.

I hit the ground. Hard.

**-x-**

There was a soft ringing in my ears and I had the insistent feeling that I was supposed to remember something important, but I couldn't quite recall what it was. I realised I was laying on a bed. I cracked my eyes open, expecting the light to sear them, but it did not. My whole body felt like it was floating, all my movements occurring in slow motion. I enjoyed the sensation for a time before it suddenly hit me.

The ambush! What happened? How did I get here? I tried to sit upright, but almost immediately there was a hand on my shoulder, pushing me gently back down.

"Easy there Marine," said a doctor, "you took a hell of a blow to the head."

"How..." I began, my tongue felt thick in my mouth.

"You've been unconscious for two days," he answered my incomplete question, "you're in a field hospital near Kandahar."

"My team?" I managed to say.

"They've been waiting for you to regain consciousness," he replied, "I'll let them know."  
Just then Jackson walked into the room.

"No need for that!" He said heartily, "We knew it'd take more than a couple pounds of C4 to knock Ponyboy out of action!"

The Sergeant was next. He pulled a chain from his breast pocket, the end of which was revealed to hold a purple pony. One of Twilight's legs had fallen off, but the most eye catching thing about her would have to be the half inch piece of shrapnel embedded in her side.

"Doc says, if she hadn't been in your pocket, you might have died," explained the Sargent, "wear 'er proud Marine."

"Oorah sir," I said with a snicker, still slightly loopy from the drugs I guessed.

"I might have to give the pony show a try," said a third voice. I knew that voice but...

I looked over and my eyes widened. Andrews.

"B-but," I stammered, "you're dead!"

Andrews looked at me with an expression of pain and disbelief, as if I'd just stabbed him. I'd seen it. I'd seen him get shot, right through the head! A single drop of blood ran down Andrews' face. Followed by another, and another, until a gaping hole opened up in his face, to the point that I could see right through to the other side. He just stood there as if nothing was wrong while his face melted away.

I yelled and screamed for people to help him, but they ignored him and just looked at me with concern.

No! This isn't real. This can't be happening. I jumped out of the bed and started running, I smashed through a pair of double doors into an emergency room. I could see the exit, another pair of wooden double doors, with windows set into them revealing that is was night time.

Seemingly out of nowhere, two MPs stepped out and blocked my path. I raised my arms to defend myself... and realised I was wearing my PipBuck – what the hell? While I had been looking at my PipBuck, the MPs seemed to have frozen in place. I stopped running and lowered my arms. The MPs took this as a sign of surrender and relaxed slightly. I glanced over at the doors, and caught my reflection in the glass. It wasn't human. It was a pony with a bright blue coat, stained with blood, gripping a rusty machete. It doesn't even seem possible with a tool clenched in his teeth, but somehow he grinned at me.

There was a metallic clink, my eyes opened and the dream world faded almost instantly, only to be replaced by an actual pony, green this time, holding an actual knife towards my throat.

**-x-**

"Mhf suf ev woove gevv oo." said Skull, unintelligible through the knife grasped in his teeth.

My eyes widened, my heart raced, knife training was the first thought in my head. Like an amateur he was holding the knife a distance from my throat instead of pressing against it. That would give me time to react. Still, he was a pony, and none of my training was designed to combat that. Strangely enough we didn't practice techniques against knives held in the mouth. Go figure. I had another idea.

"I'm sorry, what?" I asked, masking my fear, "you went to the zoo?"

"NVO, EI SEV EI WUVV GEVV OO!" He yelled, louder, but no more understandable, pointing the knife menacingly.

"You've lost a shoe?" I questioned again, feigning ignorance, "well I'm not sure that I can help you with that..."

He spat out the knife and got right in my face, his breath smelled of rancid meat - euch. Did I even want to know?

"NO!" He spat, "I SAID -"

No-one will ever know what he was trying to say because I grabbed him by the throat, smashed his head against a rock, and stabbed him in the eye with the discarded knife. He shuddered once, then died, the knife buried to the hilt in his freakishly huge eye socket.

Fuck. I took a few deep breaths and waited for my hands to stop shaking. I glanced over at the body and felt nauseated. Shooting someone was one thing, but this? With my bare hands? Both my gloves were covered in blood, but my left was charred, fibres fused with the burned hand beneath. That damn orb thing. I poked at it with a finger and winced. Some of the pony's blood had gotten into the open wound. I hoped there were no pony-human diseases, but knowing my luck I would probably die of pony AIDS.

I could almost hear the sergeant. Stow that shit Marine. Check for more attackers, be ready. My rifle was still attached to my webbing. Safety off, round in the chamber; despite the circumstances the realisation that I had been sleeping with a weapon that was ready to fire felt like a gut punch. I probably should have found shelter, or at least moved to a more defensible location, but the ringing in my ears had come back, and I was unsteady on my feet. I stumbled along until I reached a wall that was mostly intact and slumped down with my back against it. I scanned the surrounding area with my rifle, wincing as I gripped it with my burned hand. Nothing moving.

I set the rifle down and began the delicate task of removing my glove. I took a hold of one finger and gently pulled, gritting my teeth as the glove's fibres dragged against where they were fused to my hand. Jesus fucking Christ that hurt. There was no fucking way the glove was coming off that way. I pulled my combat knife and carefully cut around the fused areas, only stabbing myself twice with the ridiculously sharp blade. The rest of the glove came of easily enough, leaving four pieces of cloth fused to my palm. This was going to suck. I folded out the pliers from my multi-tool and gripped the first piece, took a deep breath and -

"FUUUUUUUUUUUUUUCK!" I screamed internally as I ripped fabric out of the wound. It bled profusely as the burnt skin was torn apart. I repeated this for the rest of the pieces, rinsing the wound with water from my hydration pack, then bandaged the hand as tightly as I could manage. The bandage became stained red, but after a couple minutes of applying pressure, the bleeding appeared to stop.

I took a sip from the hydration pack, and realised it was empty.

Well that was just fucking great.

_Footnote:  
Level Up  
Medicine: 25_


	3. Chapter 3: Unknown Knowns

**Chapter 3: Decisions**

"_If the local people are known to be enemies, or are unknowns, make every effort to avoid contact and leave no sign of your presence... If, after careful observation, you determine that an unknown people are friendly, you may contact them if you absolutely need their help." US Army Survival Manual; entry on Making First Contact_

I kept watch until sunrise at 0530. In future I was going to have to conserve battery on my night scope. I had at best a couple hours left and I did not fancy my chances of finding AA batteries in the Equestrian wasteland.

After two days in the wasteland my food supplies were exhausted and I was beginning to seriously consider drinking some of the radioactive water I had found in Ponyville.

Fatigue was no stranger for me, but it hung on my consciousness with a constant weight that couldn't quite be ignored, sleep debt combined with the time of day and dehydration worsened the effect. I knew it would get better before it got worse. On the schedule today: find some uncontaminated water. The bottle I had scavenged from Skull's saddle bag made my pipbuck click like a geiger counter and – though my Nuclear Biological Combat training was limited – '**Do Not Fuck With Shit That Is Radioactive**' seemed to be one of the main lessons to take away from it. DNFWSTIR for short. We do love our acronyms.

Flicking through the menus in my pipbuck had revealed an audio player, though I could only find one file for it to play. It was labeled "_A_Message_from_ _". Stabletec... those were the bastards that orb had been rambling about. It was probably worth a listen. I hit the oversized play button. A literal retina display, but no touch screen. Seems weird until you remember that it was designed to be used by hooves.

"GREETINGS TRAVELER, MY NA-" The machine blared through a tinny speaker. I mashed the stop button and gripped my rifle tighter, looking around for anyone who might have heard the noise. I saw nothing out of the ordinary, released the breath I had been holding and mentally kicked myself for being so jumpy.

"Jesus Christ man, what are you going to do if you see a mouse, have a fucking aneurysm?" I muttered under my breath.

Alright, so the pipbuck doesn't transmit directly to my ears. I found the volume dial, turned it to one quarter and hit play again.

"_Greetings traveler, my name is Scootaloo and you probably have no idea who I am or where you are. I'd like to start with an apology. If you're listening to this, that means the transfer was successful and the translation spell is working. I hope you can forgive us for pulling you away from... whatever it was you were doing back in your dimension. The truth is, we need your help. If you're listening to this, then I'm dead; the bombs fell and Equestria is no more... Celestia help me, I pray that no one ever has to listen to this... I know, we had no right to take you from your world but... *sigh* I had better provide some context._

_As I said, my name is Scootaloo and I run... ran a company named 'Stabletec'. Equestria was at war, on the brink of total annihilation by devastating new weapons called megaspells, each one capable of destroying an entire city. Stabletec's goal was to build underground shelters to preserve pony life after the apocalypse. If my calculations are correct then two hundred years should have been long enough for most of the magical radiation to dissipate. If not... well I just hope your species isn't as sensitive to radiation as ours. Most of the stables should have opened by now, so there should be ponies around. They need your help._

_We decided it was pointless to save ponykind, only for us to destroy ourselves again. Pony nature led us inevitably to this end. Our petty squabbles magnified and repeated ad infinitum until the resulting hate set the world on fire. As a true outsider, an alien as it were, you can provide perspective. Think of it as a cultural exchange. You tell us about your people and we'll tell you about ours. Perhaps it is this exchange of ideas that will allow us to regain our peaceful way of life and restore friendship and harmony to Equestria._

_You have no reason to trust me, but I have placed several 'quests' in your pipbuck, which I hope you complete as an ambassador of your species. The last quest is to return home. If you want to skip to that I won't stop you. Hopefully the machine is still intact. If it's not... well I'm sorry, but you're on your own. I hope you can forgive us._

_May Celestia have mercy on us all."_

Scootaloo was an adult and president of a company, so what? Twenty, thirty years after the show? Then another two hundred after the apocalypse. They were all dead then. If the 'megaspells' hadn't killed them, time itself would have finished the job. Celestia, Luna, they could still be alive. They would have to be, right? The sun still rose and set; but how could they let this happen? A way home though. That was the real message here. According to the quest the machine was somewhere in Canterlot, but that was a trek I was in no condition to undertake at the moment. I needed supplies, rest, and preferably some intel. Supplies first, I wasn't going to last much longer without a fresh water source.

After a few more fruitless hours of searching the ruins, luck seemed to finally go my way. As I scanned the perimeter I caught sight of a blip on the horizon and brought up my scope.

In the distance I saw a caravan working its way up the cracked road. It consisted of two covered wagons pulled by what looked to be horribly mutated cows with two heads. I chuckled at the idea of ponies driving a cart rather than pulling, it just seemed so... backwards. Along with the cart drivers, two ponies with guns hanging off saddles flanked the first cart, three more ponies walked in between the first and second carts, and two more behind the second. Nine ponies in all. I couldn't determine gender from this distance, dressed as they were. I took my eye away from the scope. Of course there could be a dozen more inside the carts, but I doubted that was the case. More likely they were filled with supplies for their journey. Hopefully they had some spare water and food to trade. I could probably trade some ammo or grenades... although I supposed that with hooves the grenades would only be workable by a unicorn. Despite what you see in the movies you can't pull a pin with your teeth. It's the first thing Boots try when they get their hands on a training grenade and seldom does anyone try it twice.

The more immediate problem was how to approach the caravan without scaring the ponies to death. Or being perforated by them. Both poor outcomes. They didn't look like raiders, at least judging by their improvised cloth and metal armour. Their clothes were dirty but free of bloodstains. That and they just didn't have that crazed look in their eyes.

Approaching with my rifle raised would surely get me shot, but coming out with my hands up didn't seem like such a good idea either. Would they even understand the gesture? Even between cultures on Earth such gestures weren't universal. Put your hand up to tell an Afghani vehicle to stop and he'll assume you're asking him to come closer, with often lethal consequences. When dealing with animals, raising your arms was supposed to make you look larger and more intimidating, the exact opposite of what I wanted. Ponies were obviously sentient, but fear of giant bipeds with their arms raised, ready to strike, was likely instinctual for beings living in a world that I seemed to remember contained bears.

Making it somewhat easier was the fact that they spoke English, so I could at least yell at them. I just had to get within shouting distance and I could try to explain myself.

-x-

I shook my head in disbelief that I had put myself in such a situation. I knelt in the middle of the road with my rifle laying on the cracked road surface in front of me, my hands raised up next to my head. The caravan approached and stopped thirty meters from me. I had picked this spot so that it would be difficult for them to go around me.

The two caravan guards trained their rifles on me. Not only that, but the front most cart driver gripped some kind of shotgun in his mouth, and all the other ponies hefted weapons of one kind or another.

"Don't shoot!" I called out, "I mean you no harm. I want to trade."

I had briefly considered 'I come in peace from planet earth for all mankind', but I didn't want to fuck up first contact with some pointless grandstanding, even if I was the first human to speak to aliens. The ponies were remarkably silent, or at least I thought so until I realised that with their mouths gripping their trigger bits, they were incapable of speech. A couple of the ponies appeared to be shaking in fear. The guard pony on the left spat out his bit before yelling back.

"I don't know what the buck you are but we don't want what you're selling," he yelled back, "stay down and back slowly away from your weapon or we will open fire."

"Please, I just need some water," I called back, "I can trade ammunition or weapons, I've got some grenades."

"Back away or we will open fire," screamed the pony, "this is your last warning!"

His voice cracked near the end. He was trying to act tough, but he was obviously struggling to maintain the façade. Honestly, where did they get these mercs? I wasn't about to surrender my rifle to them.

"Okay," I said slowly and clearly, "I'm backing away, but I'm taking my rifle. Don't shoot."

Somepony in the crowd fired a rifle. It hit me in the chest and I felt a plate crack as I collapsed forward, wheezing for air, pain flaring across potentially broken ribs as I breathed in, gritting my teeth. I reached my hand forward and grabbed ahold of my rifle. Even with the pain in my chest I felt better with its weight in my hand.

That was apparently the last straw for the ponies. After a moment of shocked confusion they all opened fire. I threw myself off the side of the road, rolling down the embankment. I could hear bullets flying past me despite the ringing in my ears. I was quickly coated in mud and I tasted dirt. I grunted in pain as I rolled over the fractured plate in my vest. I reached halfway down the hill before I heard more gunshots. I spread my arms and legs to arrest my tumble and I slid to a stop. I could see ponies silhouetted on top of the hill and I returned fire. Like ducks in a shooting gallery. They didn't seek cover, with those saddle-mounted weapons it would be nigh impossible to aim at the enemy without facing them with their whole body. Tactically they were more akin to tiny vehicles.

I looked around for cover, but found myself pinned down by their fire. Instead I lay as flat as possible, presenting as small a target as I could. I fired a few rounds indiscriminately, hoping to drive them off the ridge. They didn't budge. I sighted my first target and fired, catching one of the guard ponies in the shoulder. He collapsed onto his knees, but to his credit, he kept kept firing until my second round hit him in the chest. A mare ran to him and tried to give him something from a bottle. Alcohol maybe? For the pain? I moved my attention to another rifle pony, hitting him in the neck. I kept sighting and firing, my spent brass splashing into the watery muck beside me. It had started to rain, icy water running downhill and soaking me in seconds.

One by one the ponies fell. Not all my rounds hit their targets, but enough did. One of the ponies charged down the hill at me – I smashed in his face with the barrel of my rifle and he tumbled down past me.

The remaining ponies started to back up, so I began to advance, seizing the advantage. I stood up, trying to see targets over the ridge. I wasn't killing people, I was removing threats. Four were left, then three. The remaining ponies finally had the sense to take cover behind one of their wagons, for all the good it would do them. I dropped to the ground on the edge of the road and sighted under the wheels of the cart. I fired six times and hit three hooves, two ponies dropped to the ground and I put rounds into their sides. The last pony bolted out from behind cover but wasn't fast enough. I tagged him in the chest and flank as he ran. He stumbled and skidded to as stop.

I tasted blood in my mouth and spat crimson into the dirt. I got down low, looking between the wheels of the wagon. Two of the ponies lay still but a third continued to gasp for breath, eyes rolling in terror as it clutched at a severed hoof, a wound in its side had missed heart and lungs, denying it a quick death, but it wouldn't last long. I thought about putting it out of its misery, but that wasn't how we did things. Instead I approached the wagon and kicked the weapon away from its head.

The rain was so heavy now that it was starting to affect visibility, water dripped off my helmet and mud coated the entire front of my body. I could taste the grit as dirt was washed down my face and into my mouth. I cleared the wagon, moving to the second one. It was clear too. Now they were all dead. That was just fucking great. Some great fucking ambassador I was. With the threats removed I was allowed the luxury of feelings again, and I was beyond pissed. I went back to the one pony who was still barely breathing. I grabbed it but the collar of... whatever the fuck you call a shirt when a pony is wearing it, and lifted it up to my height with one hand, staring it in the eye.

"What the fuck was that, huh?" I yelled, water flying from my mouth. Despite the amount of pain it was in from the gunshot wounds the pony still flattened its ears to its head, wincing at the volume, "Are you listening to me you piece of shit? I ask for some fucking water and you take a shot at me!"

The pony screwed its eyes shut, turning its head away from me. I shook the pony and it groaned in pain from its injuries.

"Open your eyes." I ordered, "I said OPEN YOUR FUCKING EYES cock stain or I will end you! LOOK. Look around you. This is on you. You did this. This is not on me. You and your little pony friends fucked with the wrong person and now you're all fucking dead."

At some point during my rant the pony had in fact expired. It went limp and stopped struggling. I threw the lifeless corpse into the mud in disgust. It rolled a few times before ending up awkwardly on its side, enormous eyes remaining open as it lay there in the mud.

My wet hair beneath the helmet was beginning to itch. I tore the helmet off and hurled it into the side of the cart. My rage was not sated in the least and I wanted to murder the next thing I saw.

What the fuck were those ponies thinking? My eyes were wide, still searching for targets. My hands shook. My teeth were set. I glared at my traitorous shaking hands, but the harder I tried to keep them still, the more they shook. I was breathing heavily through my nose, like a predator on the hunt my sense of smell grew more acute, I could smell the mix of blood, piss and cordite that marked a battlefield along with the overpowering damp smell of mud.

There are some people who are addicted to combat, and while I don't count myself among them I can understand how it happens.

You know that rush you get when you play in a championship game? It's nothing like that. Instead imagine it's the middle of the night and you're bare ass naked clinging to the roof of a speeding car.

At levels this high, adrenaline feels like the best drug you could possibly imagine. That pain in your foot from being on patrol all day? Gone. Worries about your girl back home? Don't even rate. Blood and gore splattered on your face? It's not an immediate threat to your life so who gives a fuck. You can run like Usain Bolt and punch like Muhammed Ali. Your body feels so light it's like it's not even there. The air feels thick enough to bite on... oh and you're so scared you feel like you're about to shit your cammies.

Coming down off that sort of high is not fun. Your muscles begin to ache all over and you feel as twitchy as fuck for hours afterwards.

That was the state I was currently in. The Corps has ways of dealing with combat stress, and no I don't mean psychologists and all the other POG shit, they have their place but it's not on the battlefield. No, it's more about just talking it out with your squadmates. Talking about how fucked up shit was, supporting their decisions, it re-enforces your normality. It allows you to put your actions and experiences into context.

"What the fuck are you staring at?" I yelled at the lifeless pony lying there with glazed eyes. "Huh, you worthless sack of shit. Where's your magical friendship now?" I kicked it in the head and heard its jaw snap as it slid through the mud, leaving a trail of blood that was soon washed away by the rain.

Alone. I was alone in this wasteland. I'd killed every living thing I'd seen. I slumped down against the side of the wagon with my rifle across my knees, overcome by a sudden wave of fatigue. After everything I'd put it through, my body just wanted to lay down here and rest. I shivered as my clothing became completely saturated.

I breathed in deeply, ignoring the sharp stab of pain from my fractured rib. Tilting my head back I let the raindrops land in my parched mouth, only to have a message flash into my vision. Having a HUD built into my eyes was freaky enough, but the message itself did nothing to ease my fears: 'RADIATION INGESTION WARNING: 1 RAD/S - TOTAL EXPOSURE 3 RAD (CONDITION GREEN)'

"You have got to be fucking kidding me." I muttered. The rainwater was radioactive. That made no sense... unless it was washing radioactive particles out of the air, but wouldn't that mean that the air was... but at what altitude? Fuck. I should have paid more attention in NBC training. Was a 'Rad' a lot, or just a little? Green. Green sounded good.

Theories aside, if this rain was radioactive I should really follow the DNFWSTIR rule and find some shelter. I couldn't just leave the caravan though. Though the encounter hadn't gone down the way I would have wanted it, the supplies were now mine and I had to get them off the road before raiders got any funny ideas about them.

I took another painful breath and forced myself back to my feet. My body felt weak and my mind fuzzy. I had to set my teeth to prevent them from chattering. I mentally slapped myself, suck it up Marine, you've still got work to do. I checked the perimeter for any ponies drawn by the gunfire but it was impossible to make out anything beyond a couple dozen meters due to the heavy rain. I allowed my rifle to hang from its one-point harness and started going through the contents of the first cart. It wasn't much. In America it would probably have had a street value of about twenty dollars, but in this wasteland I wouldn't trade it for a ton of gold.

There were a number of crates inside the cart, the first contained a collection of rags. Awesome. Hundreds of uses for them. I could boil them to use as bandages, tear them into kindling, use them as lashing to construct a shelter; I took one and wrapped it around my face. Not exactly a gas mask, but if there were radioactive particles in the air, it should at least catch some of them. I hoped.

The next box contained a few loaded .22 magazines. Not so useful. The gunpowder could be used as an explosive, but trying to open them without the right equipment was dubious at best. In the rest of the cart I found a couple dozen bottles of water, a bunch of tin cans with the labels worn off and sack of oats. I brought one of the bottles up and held it next to my pipbuck. I wasn't sure exactly how the sensor worked, but it didn't click so I assumed it wasn't radioactive. Of course that alone didn't mean it was drinkable. Any number of deadly chemical or biological contaminants could be hiding in this clear liquid.

I unscrewed the bottle and sniffed it, it was odorless, I dipped my finger in it. No reaction. I dipped again and rubbed it on my cracked lips. Still nothing. I carefully poured some of the water onto my tongue. It was almost tasteless, perhaps a little bit stale. As far as I could tell without a chemist, it was clean water. It could still kill me, but that was a risk I was going to have to take. I chugged the bottle, experiencing sweet relief as it lubricated my dry throat and mouth. I uncapped another and repeated the action. I felt nauseated from the adrenaline, I hoped, and not anything in the water.

Continuing my search, there were a number of canvas tents rolled up with string. I also found a few personal items: clothing, a sketchbook, and strangely, some kind of teddy bear. No doubt intended for some foal's parents in another town to buy. I had no interest in such things. Survival was my mission here. The rest of the cart was mostly taken up by the scrap metal that, I surmised, was their main commodity.

I saw a glint of white in amongst the boxes and moved a wooden crate to reveal a metal box marked with the unmistakable three butterflies of Fluttershy's cutie mark. My eyes widened. Something important had to be in this box. The embodiments of the Elements of Harmony would have been important in the war, so who knew what treasures would be considered worthy of affixing such a mark. I opened the latches, a watertight seal popping as I did so, and was almost overwhelmed by the cleanliness of the contents after so long in the muddy wastes; fluffy white bandages, medicine bottles of various kinds, an IV bag with a nuclear tri-foil mark read 'RADAWAY'. Alright, I was going to have to stay clear of that one. I didn't trust anything with a tri-foil. I closed up the box. Definitely a keeper. Of course it had to be Fluttershy, didn't it? Her kindness was helping ponies, even from beyond the grave.

I managed to affix the medical box to some molle loops on the back of my vest, creating a crude kind of backpack. I had considered foregoing the heavy box in favor of a lighter saddle bag, but the box was watertight and in the pouring rain the bandages would be contaminated within minutes. I stuffed some of the more useful looking rags into my pouches before tying one of the larger rags into a sling-type bag that I filled with ten of the bottles, which looked to be around twelve ounces each, and a couple of mystery cans. I slung the bag on my right, then grabbed the five pound sack of oats and slung it on the opposite side with the help of another rag.

I couldn't carry all of the useful items at once, I was going to have to find places to cache these, so I could retrieve them later. I stuffed the canvas from a tent into my left sling bag along with some string and went to check out the second cart.

The layout of the second cart was much the same as the first. I started poking through the first crate when I heard a whimper.

Immediately my rifle came up and I took a step back from the cart. I activated the barrel-mounted flashlight. It was easy to see why I hadn't spotted it on my first sweep of the cart, but I still mentally kicked myself for my lack of observation. In the back of the cart was a unicorn colt with a coat as black as soot, hiding between the boxes. He bled from a wound to his back, most likely from one of my stray rounds. Fuck. I couldn't just leave it there. Could I? I mean, it was probably going to die anyway, and I certainly wasn't in a position to drag around a liability until I found a safe haven.

Logic aside, he was basically a child. I saw a red blip on my compass. Raiders. I looked at the young colt's eyes rolling in terror. Fuck it.

"Up!" I yelled, lowering my weapon, "Move your ass, before the raiders get here!"

The colt just stared at me.

"On your feet or you're dead," I screamed at him, "I can't carry you and the supplies and I'm sure as fuck not going to starve to death to save your worthless hide."

The colt shakily got to its hooves and jumped down off the cart.

"Now follow me," I ordered, "and don't fall behind, because I'm not going back for you."

Tears ran down the colt's face, though most were lost amidst the rain. I would have felt for the kid, but I had to get out of here alive before I could care about his feelings.

There were red blips in almost every direction on my compass now, but unfortunately it didn't show any indication of how far the enemies were. I heard a shot ring out from behind me, but it didn't seem to be aimed in my direction. Were the raiders fighting each other, or were they really that bad a shot? I wasn't complaining. With that gunshot my adrenaline was back up and my pain and fatigue were lost to the heat of battle once again, replaced by a fear of every shadow and sound that could spell my death.

I started moving left, towards the edge of the hill. I assumed they were after the caravan rather than me. More gunshots rang out around me over the oppressive static of the rain and the ringing of my own ears. A raider appeared in front of me, sporting a saddle-mounted shotgun. He wasn't even looking in my direction but I put three rounds into him anyway, continuing to move forward.

I checked behind me and the colt was still there. I was going to get him out. I heard more gunshots and some faint yells of pain. They were fighting over the remnants of the caravan.

I reached the edge and grabbed the colt with my left arm, ignoring his kicking and squeal of shock. I jumped off the edge and slid down with the torrent of water that now poured down the incline. At the bottom of the hill I splashed into a previously-stagnant pool that had formed in a bomb crater. It felt slimy and made my pipbuck click even faster than it had at Skull's water.

I scrambled to get out of the water. I still had the colt grasped securely with my left arm, the rifle in my right. It was unwieldy and difficult to climb the slope that way, so I set the colt down on the ground.

"On your feet kid," I yelled over the pouring rain, "time to move!"

The colt remained motionless.

I swore. Just one pony. Was that too much to ask? Could I just find one pony that I didn't end up killing? I reached down and put my hand to his chest... and felt a heartbeat.

I swore again. Now I had to drag this pony out of here, cut my resources in half... if he lived anyway.

The shaking of my hands was starting to get even worse and my teeth were beginning to chatter. It wasn't just the adrenaline. I was starting to go into hypothermia, my energy reserves were at nothing and my saturated clothing was sucking out more heat than my body could replace.

I...I needed a fire, somewhere to dry out my clothes, and food... and sleep. I looked down at the comatose pony and sighed. Moving him was probably not the best idea in terms of first aid, but neither of us was going to last long out in this weather. I picked him up and draped him over my shoulders like a fox scarf. At least this way I could still operate my weapon if need be. The small pony's body heat warmed my neck somewhat. Thank God for small mercies, right?

I climbed out of the muddy crater on legs that felt like rubber. If my whole body hadn't been numb they would no doubt been screaming at me. My thoughts had to fight through the warm and inviting fatigue that enveloped my brain as I trudged ever onwards. I lost all sense of time, each step, each dull vista blending into the next. I felt as though I was watching from behind my eyes as my vision began to tunnel. At some point the sun had begun to set.

Off in the distance I saw a white pony, her wings open to envelop me, iridescent in the gray expanse as rain continued to fall in sheets. I had stopped shivering. A feeling of warmth permeated my body as I kept walking towards it.

I tripped and fell down an embankment, landing in some kind of cave... alright, not so much a cave as a rocky overhang, but I was out of the rain so I didn't complaining. I laid the colt on the dry ground and felt for his heartbeat, my fingers on his chest. It was something.

All of this happened in a dream-like state, I was drifting in and out. Each time I closed my eyes, I saw flashes of things that weren't there. Like waking from a dream, each transition between fantasy and reality was disorienting, each dream jumbled and half-forgotten. I bit my tongue to try and stay awake, but it didn't help. Harvesting some branches from a bush growing near the edge of my new shelter. Setting up the tinder, striking flint with my knife, trying to start a fire with the damp wood. I kept dropping the flint from my numb hands. Eventually I succeeded in getting it lit, but even I'm not sure how many tries it took.

I removed my vest and winced as I felt the bruise where the bullet had struck. There wasn't much I could do for broken ribs. I turned my attention to the colt and saw that he was shivering violently, blood slowly leaking from the wound on his back. Taking a closer look it wasn't that deep. Serious, but not immediately life threatening. I applied a strange purple liquid that I assumed was anti-septic. I probably should have been more cautious, but at this point I was essentially running on auto-pilot. I bandaged the wound before moving on to my hand, unwrapping the soaked bandage and applying more of the purple liquid before rebandaging it.

The small fire wasn't producing much heat and the pony continued to shiver. I opened my shirt and picked up the pony, hugging him to my chest to share our body heat. The colt's wet coat felt warm against my skin but smelled almost like a wet dog. I lay down next to the fire, trying to position myself as close as possible without risking anything catching alight. The colt had stopped shivering, I hoped because of my body heat, and not because he was dying. I wasn't planning on going to sleep just at that moment, but my much abused body had other plans. Sleep hit me like an M203 to the face.


End file.
